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Gilles De leuze, Foucault
Timothy O'Leary, Foucault and the Art ofEthics
Death and
the Labyrinth
THE WORLD OF
RAYMOND ROUSSEL
MICHEL FOUCAULT
Translated from the French by
CHARLES RUAS
With an Introduction by
JAMES FAUBION
and a Postscript by
JOHN ASHBERY
Continuum
The Tower Building 15 East 26th Street
11 York Road New York
LondonSE17NX NY 10010
ISBN: 0-8264-6435-1
Words are bad actors who botch their roles. They are cop
ies made of used, leftover, prefabricated and reprocessed
materials. They are lacking. They are the cleft in the
threshold, the hollow between two parentheses, the decay
in every tragic metamorphosis, the countless dead ends of
a labyrinth within which every quest and from which every
attempted escape is futile.
* The book we have in English as Madness and Civilization: A History ofMadness in the
Age of Reason ( 1 965) is an abridged version of Foucault's doctoral thesis, Folie et
Deraison: Histoire de la folie a l'age classique, published in French in 1 96 1 . The first
volume of The History of Sexuality ( 1 978) was published in French in 1 976.
General Introduction Xlll
*That is to say, in Madness and Civilization. See Eribon 1991: 71. Foucault wrote a
short book, Maladie mentale et Personnaliti, in 1954, seven years before Madness and
Civilization. He revised the book in 1 962; we have the latter in English under its
revised title, Menta/Illness and Psychology (Foucault 1976).
XIV D EATH A N D T H E LA B Y R I N TH
*The French rubric translated here as the "human sciences" has no precise counter
part in English. It includes both the theoretical and the applied social sciences, but
also includes psychology and human biology.
General Introduction XVll
* See Foucault 1997a: 200. See also Foucault 1997b: 73-4, where nominalism is put
forth merely as a "methodological" principle. See also my "Introduction" to the
second volume of Essential Works (Faubion 1998: xxxvii). It is of interest that no
mention of nominalism is to be found explicitly in the preface Foucault finally
included in the second volume of The History of Sexuality.
General Introduction XXI
Work
15 October, 1926 Born to Paul-Michel Foucault and
Anne-Marie Malapert in Poitiers, France.
Summer, 1946 Entry into the Ecole normale superieure,
Paris.
1948 Receives the licence in philosophy from the
Sorbonne.
1949 Revises his thesis for the diplome d 'etudes supirieures
in philosophy under one of his cherished mentors,
Jean Hippolyte.
1952 Completes the diplOme in psychopathology at the
Institut de psychopathologie in Paris; begins
teaching in the Faculty of Letters at Lille.
* Cesar Dumarsais, Les Tropes, 2 vols. (Paris, 1 8 1 8) . The first edition is dated 1 75-.
D E A T H A N D THE L A B Y R I N TH
hook, the pike, the bell, idle chatter; the position of the
red buttons on the masks of the handsome blond favorite;
the position of the red buttons on the Basques, etc.
This minute morphological difference-they are always
present and there's only one per sentence-is essential for
Roussel. It serves as the organizing principle to the whole:
"I would choose two nearly identical words (suggesting
the metagram) . For example, billard and pillard. Then I
would add similar words, selected for two different mean
ings, and I would obtain two identical sentences."
The repetition is sought and found only in this infini
tesimal difference which paradoxically induces the identi
cal; and just as the antisentence is introduced through the
opening created by a minute difference, it is only after an
almost imperceptible shift has taken place that its identi
cal words can be set. Both the repetition and the differ
ence are so intricately linked, and adjusted with such exac
titude, that it's not possible to distinguish which came first,
or which is derived. This meticulous connection gives his
polished texts a sudden depth wherein the surface flatness
seems necessary. It's a purely formal depth beneath the
narrative which opens a play of identity and differentia
tion that is repeated as if in mirrors. It goes continuously
from objects to words, losing track of itself, but always
returning as itself. There is the slightly different identity of
the inductor words, a difference masked by the identical
adjacent words, an identity which covers a difference of
meaning, a difference that the narrative tries to eliminate
in the continuum of its discourse. This continuity leads to
these inexact reproductions whose flaws enable the iden
tical sentence to be introduced; an identical sentence but
slightly different. And the simplest, most conventional
everyday language, a rigorously flat language which has
the function of repeating with exactitude objects and the
past for everyone, on entering into the play of infinite
The Cushions of the Billiard Table
multiplication of reflections, is captured, without escape,
in the depth of a mirror. The way out goes deeper into an
empty labyrinthian space, empty because it loses itself
there. When the language rejoins itself, it is shown that
the same things are not the same, not here, but other and
elsewhere. And this game can always begin again.
The metagram, treated like a game, is thus drawn back
from and marginal to everything that's commonplace, set
tled, and peacefully familiar in the language; it brings forth
on a mocking surface the game of continually changing
reptitions, and of changes that end up as the same thing, a
game where language finds the space it needs. The meta
gram is both the truth and the mask, a duplicate, repeated
and placed on the surface. At the same time, it is the open
ing through which it enters, experiences the doubling, and
separates the mask from the face that it is duplicating.
and slides into the space that separates it from the person
whom it imitates and who, in turn, is its double. Aren't
these already like a first formulation of the profound void
underlying objects and words, over which moves the
language of the process of doubling itself, experiencing
in this trajectory its own disappointing reproduction?
Chiquenaude is a magical gesture which, in one motion,
opens the seam and reveals about language an unsus
pected dimension into which it will throw itself. As in all of
Roussel's work, this chasm holds between its symmetrical
parentheses a cycle of words and objects which are
self-generated, and completes its movement with self
efficiency. As nothing outside can disturb the purity and
glory enclosed, it finds itself in a repetition which
whether by essential fate or by sovereign will-means the
elimination of the self.
These genesis-texts, fecund texts, already promise the
end when they will be repeated, the end which is a willed
death and a return to the first threshold.
3
Rhyme and Reason
period Uust after the cyclical tales Nanon and Une Page du
Folklore Breton) when he wrote Impressions d 'Afrique in a style
derived from his previous technique. It's the same slightly
monotonous voice as in the early narratives, the same
exact words, stretched and flat. Yet it seems to me that it's
no longer the same language speaking, that the Impressions
d 'Afrique was born on another verbal continent. The fra
gile and persistent vessels we already know have taken to
this second land those words that prowl around the con
fines of Roussel's work: "The white letters on the cushions
of the old billiard table."
Could it be said that these clear signs written on a dark
ground along the length of a familiar game table are the
visual representation of the experiment with language
Roussel conducted throughout the whole of his work?
Could it be a sort of negative code at the boundaries of the
realm where language exerts its playful and calculable
potential? This would give that phrase the privileged role
of conveying the treasure of which, by its meaning, it is the
rather clearly drawn outline. The negative copy is one of
Roussel's familiar themes: it can be found in the white
drawings and the black wax of the sculptorJerjeck; or even
in the negative, as in the example of woven material seen
right side out by the " metier a aubes" (work at dawn/paddle
wheel loom) . These white signs say what they have to say,
and yet refute it by their very clarity.
"As for the genesis of Impressions d 'Afrique, it occurs in the
association of the word billard (billiard table) with the word
pillard ( plunderer) . The plunderer is Talou; the bandes are
his warrior hordes; the white man is Carmichael ( the word
'letters' was dropped) . Then, amplifying the process, I
sought new words related to the word billard, always with
the intention of using them in a sense other than the obvi
ous one, and each time something new was created. Thus
queue (billiard cue/train) provided Talou's robes with a
Rhyme and Reason <
train." Sometimes a billiard cue has an initial on it, the
initial of its owner: whence the initial (number) on the
aforementioned train; the same technique for bandes
( hordes) and blanc (white) . "Once outside the realm of
billard, I continued to use the same method. I selected a
word and linked it to another with the preposition a (to) ;
and these two words, understood in some other way than
their original meaning, provided me with a new cre
ation . . . . I must say that at first this was difficult work."
That isn' t hard to believe. Nor is it easy-even though
strictly speaking there may be no common standard-to
provide a detailed analysis of this method. It's not that
Roussel' s explanation is obscure or inadequate; for each
of his words, it is absolutely efficient. Nor is it a question of
there being something hidden; perhaps Roussel doesn't
tell all, but neither is he hiding anything. The difficulty in
this text, as in all the others, stems in some way from
Roussel himself, in his extreme meticulousness and his
severe brevity: a certain way of making language go
through the most complicated course and simultaneously
take the most direct path in such a way that the following
paradox leaps out as evident: the most direct line is also
the most perfect circle, which, in coming to a close, sud
denly becomes straight, linear, and as economical as light.
This effect is not on the order of style, but belongs to the
relationship language bears to the ground it must cover. It
is the formal organizing principle of the seventeen gen
esis-texts, in which the whole trajectory of the narrative
and of time traces the entire instantaneous straight line
that goes from a sentence to its marvelously identical,
diametrical opposite.
The verbal wealth from which Impressions d 'Afrique is
drawn is therefore this: "Les lettres du blanc sur les bandes du
vieux billard." In order not to have to say it again (yet with
Roussel it's always necessary to repeat) , it must be noted
34 D EATH AND THE LAB YRINTH
that the word letters (letters) is not used. I t will reappear
many times in the narrative in all its meanings, as one of
the images or resources most often selected (for example,
in the Rul, Massen, and Djizme episodes) . But it does not
dictate the construction of the language, perhaps because
that is what it designates, perhaps because the entire
scenic structure is prescribed internally by the words both
hidden and revealed there, just as the letters are visible
signs-black on white, white on black-wherein dwell
words that live and sleep beneath these strange signs. The
whole of the Impressions d 'Afrique is no more than letters
(signs and cryptograms) written in the negative (in
white ) , then brought back to the black words of a legible
and common language. The word "letter" is not part of
the game because it is being held in reserve to designate
the novel in its entirety. I can't refrain from decoding this
word as it applies to the title. This is an example of a
negative form which, when applied to a surface and seen
at a glance, leaves its own reversed image-the positive
in the same way that materials are "imprinted." It is this
meaning that I believe can be read in the word impressions,
which appears on the facade of the edifice. Obviously this
is only a hypothesis, not that this reading of it is subjective;
it is there in the autonomous meaning of the word. Per
haps Roussel did not foresee it. He knew, however, that
language can never be disposed of absolutely. He plays
with the subject that speaks, with his repetitions and his
divisions. But let's go on to something more definite.
The eponymous sentence displays, in its two versions, a
play of metagrams: billard/pillard. The first word is dropped
and the second used, but not directly as itself. (I don't think
that the word pillard [plunderer] is used once in the 455
pages of the text to designate Talou, a good man, after all,
though jealous, ill-tempered, and given to disguises.) It will
only be used through a haze of associations: cutoff heads,
Rhyme and Reason 35
tawdry fineries, spoils, the old hereditary conflicts of former
cannibal dynasties, punitive expeditions, hoarded treasures,
sacked cities. From this fact can be derived a first principle:
whereas the two homonymic sentences are what is most
evident in the early works-exalted at the beginning and
at the end of the narrative like the cryptographic bands on
the cushions of the billiard table-they are now thrust
back within the text, which, instead of being limited by
them, functions as a thick envelope. In truth, they are not
buried at the same depth: the antiword (pillard, plunderer)
is visibly indicated even if it does not appear. It appears as a
watermark beneath all the real words, readily visible against
the light. "What had been the final sentence thus rightfully
remains on the verge of visibility and enunciation. In turn,
the eponymous sentence falls outside the realm of any pos
sible visibility ( there is not the least appearance of a billiard
table or a piece of chalk) . However, it remains in fact the
exacting organizer, since without it there would not have
been any bellicose warriors, nor European captives, nor
black troops, nor the white man Carmichael, etc. It seems
that the horizontal axis of the genesis-texts has been swung
around and now shows itself vertically, as if standing on its
head: what had been seen of language and of time at the
end of the narrative, as if through binoculars, had started
from the initial sentence by the necessity of returning to it.
It is this and this alone that is found in the Impressions
d 'Afrique. It's as if one were reading, linked together, all the
final sentences of the early texts placed end-to-end in such
a way that they overlay all the first sentences and the narra
tive distance that separated them. This causes a remark
able effect of liquid depth: by bringing the narrative back
to the simple phrase that sums it up-"the hordes of the
old plunderer"-it is possible to discern, as if at the bottom
of a pool, the white pebble of that similar though imper
ceptible sentence; but it is only a surface undulation, a
D EA T H A N D T H E LA B Y R I N T H
legible echo, and from within its silence, since it is never
uttered, it sets free the whole brilliant and vibrant surface
of words. So near, and so nearly identical, the nucleus
sentence remains, however, at an infinite distance, at the
other end of language where it is dormant and vigilant at
the same time, watching over all the enunciated words,
and asleep on its unsuspected reserve. It marks the limits
of the gap that is opened up within the identity of lan
guage; it signifies the elimination of this distance. It is the
mirroring effect of the unbridgeable space that has been
suppressed, the space covered by the early texts between
their identical boundaries.
This technique of a secret verticality could lead to no
possible discourse if it weren't balanced by another, cap
able of opening a horizontal diffusion. Each word of the
eponymous sentence is associated with a kindred realm:
from billiard to billiard cue, which often bears as an inlay
a monogram of silver or mother-of-pearl-the initials of
the purchaser, who during the game reserves for himself
the exclusive use of it; which leads us to the word chif.fre
(initial/number) . Each of these words will be treated as
seminal words, used in an identical form but with a radic
ally different meaning. The piece of chalk suggests the
paper wrapping at its base to protect the fingers from the
white dust; this paper is glued to the chalk, hence the word
colle (glue/punishment) , taken in the sense used by gram
mar school students: additional work inflicted as punish
ment. Only this second meaning appears in the text; the
first, which is only a double, remains as buried as the
billiard table at the beginning. The lateral extension, by
way of association, is only made at the first level (billiard
table, chalk, stick, paper, glue) and never at the level of
homonyms, where the chieftain of the hordes or the punish
ment appears. Only the eponymous level is rich, continu
ous, fecund, susceptible to being fertilized; it weaves by
Rhyme and Reason <
itself the great spiderweb which stretches beneath the narra
tive. But if this deeper level has a natural coherence which is
guaranteed by association, the second realm is composed of
elements foreign to one another, since they have been
retained only for their formal identity in relation to their
doubles. These words are homonymous to the initial words,
but heterogenous among themselves. They are discrete
segments, without semantic communication, with no rela
tionship other than a complicated zigzag that attaches them
individually to the original core: detention (level 2) refers to
the glue (Ievel l ) on the white chalk <1) which produces the
white man Carmichael (2) ; from this we descend further
into white ( 1 ) which recalls the markings on the cushions
( 1 ) ; these cushions produce the hordes (2), where we
plunge again toward the edges of the billiard table <1 )-this
billiard which gives birth to the savage plunderer (2) , etc.
It' s a star-shaped structure which immediately indicates the
task of the narrative: to discover a curve that will touch all
the exterior points of the star, all the pointed verbal
extremes which have been projected to the periphery by
the dark explosion, now silenced and cold, of the first
language.
Now the game consists of retracing the distance produced
by the dispersion of a sentence reduced to its homonyms,
independent of any coherent meaning. It's a matter of cov
ering this distance as quickly as possible and with the least
number of words, by tracing the only line that is adequate
and necessary. Then, turning around its own motionless
center, black and shining, this solar wheel will give language
its regular motion and carry it to the light of a visible text
visible but not transparent, since nothing that upholds it
will be decipherable any longer. And in the guise of a lan
guage that develops in freedom through whimsical material,
ordered by a wandering, indolent, sinuous imagination,
an enslaved language is doled out by the millimeter,
D EATH AND THE LABYRINTH
cautious about the direction it takes, yet forced to cross an
enormous distance because it is linked from inside to the
simple, silent sentence which remains mute within it.
Between two points of the star a triangle is formed whose
base is designated by the equivocal preposition a. The task
is to project language from one point to another in a tra
jectory which will duplicate the natural affinity-masking
it as it responds to its impulse-which links a piece of white
chalk to ( a) the glue of the paper wrapping it, a billiard cue
to the initial of its owner, a bolt of old material to the darn
ing which repairs the tear (a relationship which makes it
possible to speak of bande a reprises [ recovery band/pick
up the darning strip] , queue a chiffre [a monogrammed
cue/initialed train] . . . ) . The preposition a seems to have
two functions; or rather, the narrative is working toward
bringing the a in the trajectory as close as possible to the
possessive a little by the thread of language, starting from
blanc (white) , reaches la colle (the glue) , and blanc by the
same token becomes " a colU' (what distinguishes it from
other characters is the additional element) . With two words
separated by a void, the machinery of language succeeds
in creating a profound, substantial unity, more anchored,
more solid, than any similarity of form. From the hollow
opening inside words are fashioned beings endowed with
strange characteristics, which seem to have been part of
them since the beginning of time and forever inscribed in
their destiny, yet are nothing more than the wake of the
motion of words. In the early texts the repetition of lan
guage occurred in a rarefied state (reproduction, and
inside this reproduction the statement of a void) ; now the
language experiences the distance of repetition only as a
place for the mute apparatus of a fantastical ontology. The
scattering of words allows an improbable joining of beings.
These nonbeings circulating inside the language are
strange things, a dynasty of the improbable: crachat a delta
Rhyme and Reason 39
(delta of spittle) , bolero a remise (cut-rate vest) , dragon a elan
(springing dragon) , martingale a Tripoli (martingale of
Tripoli) .
The gaps between the words are a never ending source
of wealth. Leave the first domain of "billiard" and let other
groups of words enter this magnetic field haphazardly;
and as they appear, the mechanism of the process will
treat them the same way: it will insert its blade into their
girth and bring forth two strange meanings while main
taining the unity of form. These new eponymous couples
sometimes have a sanctioned form ( maison a espag;nolettes
[ house with window bolts] , cercle a rayons [sunburst] , vestes
a brandebourgs (jacket fastened with frogs] , roue a caoutchouc
[rubber wheel] , tulle a pois [spotted tulle] quinte a resolu
'
tion [a musical fifth in resolution] ) ; but often they meet on
pretty tenuous grounds. If Bedu the engineer has installed
a loom on the river Tez that is driven like a water mill, it is
the result of a previous association: ". . . metier [work/
loom] a aubes [dawns/paddle wheel] . I thought of a pro
fession which required getting up at the crack of dawn. "
If Nair gives Djizme a gift of a braid decorated with
"small pictures of the most varied subjects," rather like
pendants on a lamp, it is because of the association of natte
(a braid a woman makes of her hair) and a cul (to the pos
terior)-"! thought of a very long braid." Or else if one is
lucky enough to think of a double figure such as the words
crachat (spittle/grand decoration such as a star or cross)
and delta (Greek letter< river delta) , what comes to mind
first? A decoration with a triangular shape similar to that
of the Greek letter written in capital? Or a man sending a
mighty, abundant stream of saliva so effluvia! that it
spreads like the Rhone or the Mekong into a delta? This is
what Roussel thinks of first.
But I'm not following the rules. My opinion as to the
appropriateness of these "rencontres a tresor' (meetings of
D EATH AND THE LABYRINTH
gems) has no relevance. What we are seeking is pure form.
What matters is the sovereign role of chance in the inter
stices of language, the way it is avoided exactly where it
holds sway, celebrated instead of obscurely defeated.
It seems that chance triumphs on the surface of the nar
rative in those forms which rise naturally out of the depths
of the impossible; in the singing mites, the truncated man
who is a one-man band, the rooster that writes his name by
spitting blood, Fogar's jellyfish, the gluttonous parasols.
But these monstrosities without family or species are
necessary associations; they obey mathematically the laws
governing homonyms and the most exacting principles of
order; they are inevitable. And if this is not recognized, it is
only because they are part of the illusory, external surface
of a dark imperative. But into the entrance of the laby
rinth, an entrance unseen because it is located paradoxic
ally at the center, true chance rushes ceaselessly. Words
from anywhere, words with neither home nor hearth,
shreds of sentences, the old collages of the ready-made
language, recent couplings-an entire language whose
only meaning is to submit to being raffled off and ordered
according to its own fate is blindly given over to the gran
diose decoration of the process. At the start no instrument
or stratagem can predict their outcome. Then the marvel
ous mechanism takes over and transforms them, doubles
their improbability by the game of homonyms, traces a
"natural" link between them, and delivers them at last with
meticulous care. The reader thinks he recognizes the way
ward wanderings of the imagination where in fact there is
only random language, methodically treated.
What I see there is not automatic writing as such but the
most conscious writing of all: it has mastered all the imper
ceptible and fragmentary play of chance. It has sealed
all the interstices of language where it could insidiously
creep in. It has eliminated gaps and detours and exorcised
Rhyme and Reason
the nonbeing which is activated when one speaks. It has
organized a space that is full, solid, massive; where noth
ing can threaten the words as long as they remain obedient
to their principle. It sets up a verbal world whose elements
stand tightly packed together against the unforeseen: it
has turned to stone a language which refuses sleep, dreams,
surprise, events in general, and can hurl a fundamental
challenge toward time. But this is accomplished by totally
removing all that is random at the origin of everything
that has speech, on that silent axis where the possibilities
of language take shape. Chance does not speak essentially
through words nor can it be seen in their convolution. It is
the eruption of language, its sudden appearance: it's the
reserve from which the words flow, this absolute distance
of language from itself, which makes it speak. It's not a
night atwinkle with stars, an illuminated sleep, nor a
drowsy vigil. It is the very edge of consciousness. It shows
that at the moment of speaking the words are already
there, while before speaking there was nothing. Short of
awakening, there is no consciousness. But at daybreak the
night lies before us, shattered into obstinate fragments
through which we must make our way.
The only serious element of chance in language does not
occur in its internal encounters, but in those at the source.
These occurrences, both within language and external to
it, form its first limitation. This is demonstrated not by the
fact that language is what it is, but that there is language at
all. The process consists of purifying discourse of all the
false coincidences of "inspiration," of fantasy, of the pen
running on by itself, in order to confront the unbearable
evidence that language comes to us from the depth of a
perfectly clear night and is impossible to master. The ele
ment of chance in literary style, its biases and reversals, is
suppressed in order to bring out the straight line of a provi
dential emergence of language. One of the reasons why
D EATH AND THE LABYRINTH
Roussel's works are created against the mainstream of lit
erature is the attempt to organize, according to the least
random discourse, the most inevitable chance occurrences.
The attempt is very often successful. The most dazzling
must be cited since it has become, by being often quoted,
Roussel's only classical passage. Here is the problem: " 1 st
baleine (whale ) a ilote ( to small island) ; 2nd baleine (whale
bone stays in a corset) a ilote ( to Helot, a Spartan slave) ; 1st
duel (duel/ combat between two people) a accolade (to two
adversaries reconciled after a duel and embracing each
other on the field) ; 2nd duel (dual/ tense of the Greek verb)
a accolade (to typographical brackets) ; 1 st mou (weak indi
vidual) a raille ( I thought of a timid student railed by his
fellows for his inadequacy) ; 2nd mou (calves' lights/lungs)
a rail ( to railway line) ." And here is the solution: "The
statue was black and seemed at first glance to be carved from
one solid block; but little by little the eye could detect a
great number of grooves cut in all directions and in gen
eral forming numerous parallel groupings. In reality the
work was composed solely of innumerable whalebone cor
set stays, cut and bent to the needs of the modeling. Flat
headed nails, whose points no doubt must have been bent
inward, joined together these supple staves which were
juxtaposed with art, without leaving room for the slightest
gap. . . . The feet of the statue rested on a very simple
vehicle, whose platform base and four wheels were also made
of black whalebone stays ingeniously fitted together. Two
narrow rows of a raw, reddish, gelatinous substance which
was in fact calves' lights were aligned on a dark wood sur
face, and by their shape, if not color, created the exact illu
sion of a section of railroad track; the four immobile wheels
rested on these without disturbing them. A floor, adapted
for carriage wheels, formed the top of a completely black
pedestal whose front displayed a white inscription which
read: 'The death of the Helot Saribskis. ' Beneath, also in
Rhyme and Reason <
snow-white letters, could be seen this inscription, half
French, half Greek, with a fine bracket: 'DUEL. ' " So easy
and so difficult is it, without any other throw of the dice
than language, to abolish such a fundamental chance.
. . . A thimble
Shines on her finger; with the edge of her thumb
She pushes it with gentle pressure and raises it slightly,
Only to let in fresh air, invigorating, pure.
The needle she holds at the same time draws
Across her work its fine , appreciable shadow
Flowing over the sides; the very short thread
Can't last longer, it risks
A sudden ending; for it to be pulled out
Of the needle, the least tug would be too much;
The work is of good, delicate material,
The thread comes from a soft hem nearing the end;
D EATH A N D THE LABYRINTH
The material wrinkles, it's pliable and supple,
Frequently handled . . . .
. . . Pourquoifiere Ia bille
Point neJraie avec lui qui de rouge s 'habille.
. . . Why the proud ball
Does not click against the one clad in red.
On Raymond Roussel
BY JOHN ASHBERY
him. ' I shall reach the heights; I was born for dazzling glory.
It may be long in coming, but I shall have a glory greater
than that of Victor Hugo or Napoleon . . . . This glory will
reflect on all my works without exception; it will cast itself
on all the events of my life: people will look up the facts of
my childhood and will admire the way I played prisoner's
base . . . . No author has been or can be superior to me .
As the poet said, you feel a burning sensation at your brow.
I felt once that there was a star at my brow and I shall never
forget it. ' These affirmations concerning works which do
not seem destined to conquer a large public and which
have attracted so little attention seem to indicate weakness
of judgment or exalted pride-yet Martial merits neither
criticism. His judgment on other subjects is quite sound,
and he is very modest and even timid in his other conduct."
Embittered by the failure of La Doublure and the works
which followed it, and no doubt also by the derision that
now greeted his rare appearances in Paris society, Roussel
began to lead the retired, hermetic existence which janet
mentions. He installed himself in a Second Empire man
sion that the family owned in Neuilly at 25 Boulevard
Richard Wallace-an elegant, secluded avenue bordering
the Bois de Boulogne. Here he worked constantly behind
the closed shutters of his villa, which was set among several
acres of beautifully kept lawns and flower beds, like the
villa Locus Solus in his novel of that same name, the
property of a Jules Verne inventor-hero named Martial
Canterel, who is of course Roussel himself.
Mter the First World War, during which he held a rela
tively safe and simple post, Roussel began to travel widely,
sometimes using the luxurious roulotte (a kind of prototype
of today's "camper") which he had ordered specially con
structed. But he did little sightseeing as a rule, preferring to
remain in his stateroom or hotel room working. He visited
Tahiti because he admired Pierre Loti; from Persia he
Postscript: On Raymond Roussel 1 93
wrote to his friend Madame Dufrene that Baghdad
reminded him of Lecocq's operetta Ali-Baba: "The people
wear costumes more extraordinary than those of the chorus
at the Gaite." As Michel Leiris points out, "Roussel never
really traveled. It seems likely that the outside world never
broke through into the universe he carried within him, and
that, in all the countries he visited, he saw only what he had
put there in advance, elements which corresponded abso
lutely with that universe that was peculiar to him . . . .
Placing the imaginary above all else, he seems to have
experienced a much stronger attraction for everything
that was theatrical, trompe-1' oeil, illusion, than for reality."
In the 1 920s Roussel began to write for the theater. He
had already devised a theatrical version of his 1 91 0 novel
Impressions d 'Afrique, which had run for a month in 1 9 1 2. 1t
seems that he approached the theater because the public
had failed to "understand" the work in its form as a novel.
Roussel apparently believed that there was a concrete,
hidden meaning to the work which the spectators might
grasp if they could see it acted out before them. Produced
in May 1 9 1 2 , at the Theatre Antoine, with some of the
leading actors of the day, including Dorival and Duard,
Impressions d'Afrique struck the Parisian public as an enor
mous joke, though it did attract spectators like Apol
linaire, Duchamp, and Picabia. But Roussel's later plays
were fated to receive much harsher treatment.
Imagining that the failure of Impressions was due to his
lack of experience in writing for the stage, Roussel commis
sioned Pierre Frondaie, a popular pulp-fiction writer of the
Maurice Dekobra variety, to turn his novel Locus Salus into
a play. But neither the adaptation, the fashionable Caligari
esque sets, the expensive costumes by Paul Poiret nor the
"Ballet de Ia Gloire" and the "Ballet Sous-Marin" which filled
up most of the second act could save the play from the
guffaws of the public and the spleen of the critics. Roussel
1 94 D EATH A N D T H E L A B Y R I N T H
PO STS C R I PT
echo xvi, xxi, 58, 59, 101 face 20, 27, 29, 1 55
eclipse 90, 92, 1 34-5 failure 1 40, 1 58, 1 9 1 , 192, 193, 196
economy viii, 1 6 7 on tological 1 40-1
grammatical 1 54 family 158
INDEX 2 1 7